


A Quest Like That

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Mark of Cain, Season/Series 10, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2014, up until mid season 10 anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean, Charlie and the hunt for the Holy Grail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for SPN Reversebang 2014/15. You can find the art for it (by litra) here: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/3174616>.

After thirty-plus years in decrepit motels, on creaking camp-beds and (too often) in the car’s back seat, Sam ought by rights to have sleeping down to an art. But it had never worked out that way. Too many nasties waiting in the shadows; too many moments shocking awake on the wrong end of a gun. He could go hours lying in the dark with open eyes, trying not to focus on just how awake he actually was. With the Mark stubbornly reasserting itself of late, even Dean’s presence wasn’t as soothing as it once had been; and judging by the silence emanating from the other side of the tent (all the way over about six inches from Sam’s right ear), his brother wasn’t doing too well at the dropping off either. You could tell when Dean was sleeping, because he snored.

Sam sighed, rolling over onto his side. An ill-placed rock dug itself promptly into his ribs. 

Why was he doing this, again? Helping Charlie re-establish her presence on the LARPing circuit seemed like a ridiculous way to be passing time when his brother was threatening to go Full Metal Demon any moment now. But Sam hadn’t been able to resist the combination of Dean’s pleading puppy eyes and the lure of a friendly face. Charlie was always so straightforwardly good to hang out with, and Sam could do with a little while around someone he was certain wouldn’t try to kill him. Of course, following that thread to its end left him uncomfortably conscious that he might be putting her (and her cosplaying friends) in danger by bringing a Mark-carrying Dean into their midst. But, but, but. He had to trust his brother. Or otherwise, where would they be? God, no wonder Sam couldn’t sleep. The same feedback loop of fretful anxiety had been running in his head since Dean’s eyes first flashed back to green.

And then, through the night, a sound that sent a thrill of horror down Sam’s spine: something like the wailing of hounds. Dean’s sleeping bag rustled as Sam’s brother sat up, the whites of his open eyes glinting pale in the dark.

“D’you hear that, Sammy?”

Sam nodded, not wanting to wake the dozen or so sleepers in the tents around. The LARPers had dispersed into small groups that evening, teams competing in a Medieval-style capture-the-flag. Charlie had introduced them to the gang, a funny mix of wide-eyed teenagers and serious, jargon-spouting enthusiasts comfortable in their own expertise. None of them had known quite what to make of Dean, solid and gruff and a little too handy with a sword; and none of them had really spoken to Sam, who had been happy enough to stand quietly aside and watch the group dynamics play out. Now, though, he was mentally cataloguing the different personalities, trying to figure who would panic at the sound of a howl in the woods. 

With that, the noise came again, more distinct and more disturbing than before. There were definitely several voices amongst the cry, several animals running together in pack. A threat, for certain, and one that they’d have to check out; especially because Sam was pretty sure wolves didn’t usually run this far South. And even if whatever was on hand wasn’t supernatural at all, who amongst this group of telesales agents and shop assistants would be better prepared than Sam and Dean to deal with real-life danger and blood? 

Dean had obviously had the same thought, clicking on the lantern and beginning to pull on his boots. His jaw was set in a hard line that might have something to do with the fear of dogs he’d been inexpertly quashing since his return from Hell. Certainly, that explanation for this conspicuous self-control was a lot less disquieting than the alternative: that Dean was struggling against the Mark and its incessant injunction to kill.

Sam watched as his brother checked over his gun, slipping it into the waistband of his jeans as he rose to a crouch. Dean looked at Sam, then, raising his eyebrow and inclining his head towards the zippered door. Sam nodded, wiggling his feet into his own shoes, grabbing his weapon and with it, just to be sure, the small canvas rucksack he’d brought with him into the woods. After all, it was never too wise to head out into the wilderness without at least basic supplies. Dean rolled his eyes, but frog-walked out of the tent without making a comment.

Outside, and out of his four-season sleeping bag, Sam found himself shivering. It had been warm in the daylight but now, in the depths of the night, it seemed very dark and chilly under the canopy of trees. It was still only March, after all, even if they were in Arkansas.

They didn’t need to talk, not after so many years at one another’s side. Instead, as Dean headed wordlessly for the edge of the clearing, Sam cast a quick glance back over the silent, huddled tents before turning to follow his brother. They were on the edge of the woods, heading into the deeper shadow beneath the trees, when the tell-tale squeal of a zipper brought them up short.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Charlie hissed.

Sam felt Dean’s frustrated eye roll even though he didn’t see it, already swinging back around with his hands held placatory in front of him. “Don’t worry about it, Charlie,” he said in a hopeful tone, the brightness in his voice belying the solid, grim weight of certainty already settling hard in his stomach. With her boots clutched in her hand, and her hair still fluffy with sleep, Charlie shouldn’t have presented too much of a threat. But if Sam’s friend was anything, she was persistent; and the hope of an easy hunt with no civilian lives in danger had evaporated the moment she stuck her head out of her tent.

“Nice try, dudes,” Charlie said. She wriggled out of the aperture, grimacing as her socked feet touched the damp earth of the forest, then wobbling one-legged as she began to pull on her shoes. “I’m a hunter too, remember? Eleven months in Oz? You gotta stop treating me like a noob. I heard those noises too and I’m not just gonna lie here while the pair of you take on a demonic wolf-pack by yourselves.”

Dean huffed a breath of frustration through his nose, and Sam thought again of the scar burning red on his brother’s skin. They’d managed to keep it hidden from Charlie, so far, Dean constantly rolling down his flannel sleeves in a careful, concealing movement that had become habitual over the life of the Mark. It was less easy to cover up the effect that the thing was having on his state of mind. Things were beginning to slide again, back to the way they’d been before Dean had punched Sam out cold and launched himself in a crazy solo flight towards death.

It was one thing for Dean to take the Mark’s gathering violence out on Sam. He was a big boy, he could take that stuff. But Charlie, little and buzzy and bright, had found out the best of Sam’s brother and it wasn’t fair on her or Dean to shatter that trust. ‘Embarrassing’. That was how Dean had described it. Sam knew all about that kind of shame. Keeping Charlie at a cautious distance was a necessity right now, for her safety and Dean’s self-respect both.

So – “Really, Charlie,” Sam began. But then the howling came again, closer, it seemed, moving somewhere to the west of where they stood; and Dean was running towards it, out into the dark. So Sam followed, like he always did. He was conscious of Charlie where she stood, cursing and hurrying to knot the laces on her boot before she hurried after him on light, rapid feet.

The howling didn’t stop for long, erupting at intervals around, before and behind them. But it seemed to be impossible to pin down. The source of the noise was moving, constantly, twisting and turning in a complicated path that Sam couldn’t pin down with any success. So he shut his mouth, and concentrated on keeping pace with Dean. Usually, that would be no problem; it was Sam who kept himself carefully in trim, Dean who more often pulled up short with a stitch or a mumbled curse. But the demon energy that had powered Dean through that long hot awful summer seemed to have left its traces in his bones, and he was leading now, out ahead, a pale figure ducking through trees and under branches, pausing momentarily before starting out again to follow the sound. 

After twenty minutes of high speed pursuit, Sam was sweating heavily, his shirt and his hoodie clinging damply to his heaving chest. He was grateful for the time he’d spent working his fitness back up to standard after his injury and grief at Dean’s loss had carved away at his muscles last year. He was in decent shape, again. But still, it was hard to keep up; and casting a quick look back over his shoulder, he saw Charlie had fallen behind, bobbing in the dappled moonlight several metres back. 

Sam was about to call out to Dean, slow him down, when Charlie tripped, limbs flailing as her foot caught on a tangled root. The fall shocked a cry out of her throat, as she slammed down heavily onto her knees, branches crunching beneath her.

Up ahead, Dean stopped. “Sam?” he called.

“Charlie’s fallen,” Sam said, turning back. Reaching Charlie in a few long strides, he took her elbow and helped her to her feet. He looked down, into her face. “You OK?”

“I’m OK,” Charlie said. “Although… I think I tore my jeans.” She leant her back against the nearest tree and bent her right leg to look at it, grimacing as she prodded at the blood-stained hole in her pants. “Nice.”

Dean was jogging slowly back towards them. As he approached Sam’s side, Sam took advantage of Charlie’s preoccupation to catch his brother’s eye and ask, exaggerated, silent, “Are we lost?”

Dean’s features leapt instinctively into a glower but Sam watched as his brother caught himself, rearranging his expression into something more conciliatory. Then, he nodded. “Sorry,” he mouthed. Sam shook his head. It wasn’t Dean’s fault. Both of them should have been more careful about tracking the route.

That was all well enough; but now, here they were, out in the dark of the forest, with Sam’s backpack their only source of supplies and Charlie possibly hurt. Sam could think of a hell of a lot better places to be.

That was when he saw it. Looking down at Charlie where she hunched over her own bleeding knee, something about the trunk that she was leaning on caught Sam’s eye. The tree was massive, gnarled; its huge, twisted shape throwing Charlie into tiny relief. By the size of it, Sam thought it had to be several hundred years old, at least. And looking around, it wasn’t the only tree of its size. Far from it. All around them, huge, heavy oaks were branching upwards and outwards, limbs tangling in the air above their heads. Sam could see beeches, too, smooth grey narrow trunks contrasting with the knotted bark of the oaks.

The thing was, there shouldn’t be beech in this forest. Not this far south and west. And the oaks were equally out of place. They weren’t the American species Sam knew, their leaves all wrong and their acorns hanging on long stems. These trees belonged in the forests of Europe and Russia. They shouldn’t be here at all. 

“Dean?” said Sam. OK, so he was about to get teased for his nature knowledge but right now it seemed like solving the mystery was a little more urgent. In fact, he needn’t have feared. Dean was looking up into the canopy overhead with the same expression of wide-eyed concern that Sam could feel on his own face. Something was definitely wrong.

“Everything OK?” Charlie asked, straightening up with one hand on the trunk of the tree. Then, looking at them more closely, “What is it?” she said.

“I think something’s off about the forest,” Sam said. Better to warn her than to put her in danger by shutting her out. He watched her, looking around her, figuring it out. 

“Huh,” she said. 

They all drew closer together, moving forward in a cautious group for lack of anywhere else to go. There was no longer a noise to follow: the hounds had been silent since Charlie went flat on her face. But there was no point turning back, not when they had no idea from which direction they’d come. 

Leaves rustled underfoot, branches creaking as the darkness of the night started to shade into the soft pearl-grey of dawn. It took a long time, in the depths of the forest, to get properly light, but it was almost there by the time that Sam began to open his mouth and ask if they should stop and review. It seemed crazy, this, pacing forward petrified with no idea where they were actually heading. And he did have a compass; which might be of pretty limited use in finding the campsite, sure, but which could at least help them aim themselves away from the heart of the forest, towards the boundary at the south or the east and to civilization.

But before Sam could speak, he felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder. “Look,” Dean said.

Sam followed his brother’s pointing finger with his eyes. Up ahead, the light between the trunks of the trees seemed brighter than it did behind them. It looked like the forest was beginning to thin. He allowed himself to hope. Maybe he was wrong about this wood. Maybe they had somehow, inexplicably, found their way back to the road. Maybe this would all be over and they’d be back in camp by lunchtime, explaining themselves to their concerned teammates and laughing at their own lack of nous. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As they reached the edge of the trees, Sam felt his jaw slackening in surprise. Beside him, Charlie gasped and Dean swore softly under his breath. Rather than the tarmacked or gravelled road for which Sam had been hoping, the land immediately in front of the forest line was covered in grass and wild flowers. It fell away into a sleep slope, at the bottom of which was a wide, fast-flowing river. On the other side, the bank rose steeply again. Climbing from its peak were the strong stone walls of a castle. 

It was a massive building, heavy and solid with crenellated turrets and small arrow-slit windows. The river ran around the hill on which it sat, forming a natural moat; and the main gate was covered by an enormous wooden door, firmly and forbiddingly closed. From the height of the forest it was possible to see that there were additional buildings within the keep. From these sprang further turrets of varying heights and shapes, stacking behind and around one another to form a final effect that wasn’t quite Disneyland, Sam thought, but which certainly had an air of unreality.

Dean turned to Charlie. “Well, Toto. We’re not in Kansas anymore,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean was cold and miserable and really not very sure how he was supposed to scale a forty-foot stone wall. Impressive as the castle had looked on first appearance, it was beginning to seem like there couldn’t be anyone inside. They’d made it all the way from the forest, down the hill and across the river without seeing any sign of activity from within the walls; they’d stood outside of the gates and shouted in French, English and half-forgotten lines from Monty Python for what felt like hours but there had been no response. Dean had been willing to leave the whole thing behind them; but just as they were considering their options the rain had begun to come down. It was light at first, just a chilly kind of drizzle; but before too long it was pounding on their shoulders, soaking clammy into Dean’s jeans and the flannel of his shirt.

When the lightning started, they all three had to agree that a retreat back to the forest didn’t seem like the best course of action; and there was no other obvious source of shelter in sight. So, into the castle it had to be, somehow. Which was where they were right now: cold and sodden and plumb out of ideas, stuck at the foot of these massive fortifications designed to keep out hordes of Viking raiders, or something, and certainly more than a match for two hunters and a techie fresh out of Oz.  
So Dean thought, at least.

Then Charlie piped up. “I’ve got an idea.” They both looked at her. “Don’t castles usually have, like, a drain? Think about the vulnerability at Helm’s Deep, you know, where the orcs put the bomb. Or, how Daenerys’ soldiers get into Meereen. It’s the castle’s most vulnerable point.”

“OK…” Sam said reluctantly. 

So Charlie led the way, around to the back of the castle and down to a point where the stone walls dropped straight down into the river.

“There it is,” she said. Leaning forward and craning his neck, Dean saw where she was pointing at – a low archway and a metal grid that covered it, low down at the level of the water.

“How are we going to get through the grate?” Sam asked.

Charlie grimaced. “I guess we swim under.”

Oh great, Dean thought. So much for getting dry. But it didn’t seem like there was any real option. Who knew how long the storm would go on? And there was always the hope, inside the castle, of grabbing some food; finding some weapons or equipment or people, just anything that might help them begin to get home. So he sighed, bent over and began to unlace his boots, stringing them around his neck. Beside him, Sam was doing the same, shucking out of his great Sasquatch shoes and shoving them into his backpack, stripping off his outer layers and bundling them across his shoulders. 

“Come on, Charlie,” Dean said. And she did, gritting her teeth and sliding into the river, slipping along with the current until she was clinging onto the grate. 

Soon Dean and Sam joined her and, “Ready?” she said.

Dean wasn’t, really; the river was cold and suspiciously cloudy, and he wasn’t totally sure that he wanted to put his head underwater just yet. But it was too late. Charlie had already vanished under the surface, and before he could begin to worry she’d popped up, bobbing happily, on the other side of the grate. “It’s fine,” she said. “Easy, really!” 

And then Sam was gone, splashing down beside him, and so Dean gritted his teeth and went too, climbing his hands down the grate until he reached the bottom, swinging himself under and then letting the air in his lungs pull him up. He came up sputtering to see Sam grinning before him, splashing him with icy, muddy water before kicking away.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean said, glowering at Charlie because she was the only one in range. She widened her eyes in mock-fear, turned and headed after Sam, under the castle walls.

Thankfully, getting out at the other end of the tunnel didn’t require another ducking; and it wasn’t long before Dean finally found himself standing on the cobbled stones of the castle courtyard. He took a breath, looked around, waited for somebody to come and clap them in cuffs. Irons. The dungeons. Whatever. But everything was silent. Nothing moved. He looked back at Charlie and Sam, who was shaking his head like a wet dog just out of the sea. “Come on, then,” he said. “We might as well get properly inside. I suppose a fire is gonna be too much to ask for, but it’s worth a look.”

Hoping he was exuding more authority than he actually felt, Dean strode out across the yard, aiming for a doorway in the wall in the opposite side. He had to bend his head as they passed through; this place seemed to be designed for somebody smaller than him and Sam and their all-American height. 

Whoever actually owned this place, it rapidly became clear that they were not home. The door opened easily under Dean’s hand, latch lifting without a squeak. Inside was a long gallery, lined with unlit torches; heavy tapestries hung on the walls. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust; enough to signify neglect but not so much as to show dereliction. It felt like whoever lived here had simply… vanished away.

“Do you think we should build a fire?” asked Sam, quietly. They were cold now, Charlie beginning to shiver, wet clothes dripping softly on the hard stone floor.

“I guess?” Dean said, doubtfully. “Should we try and find the kitchens?”

Sam nodded. “I guess there might be some firewood or something in there. Most of these rooms just have empty grates. And I’d rather not start chopping up the furniture just in case.” 

“Which direction, then?” They had no idea, of course. So Dean took the lead, walking at random through the rooms, following the natural logic of the building. At last, turning a corner, he found himself… well… somewhere. 

“Son of a bitch!” said Sam behind him.

“The Great Hall,” Charlie breathed.

She wasn’t wrong; the place was enormous, its wood and plaster ceiling hanging at a dizzying height above their heads. The floor was covered with straw, whose musty odour made Dean wrinkle his nose.

“Dude,” he said. “Gross. I can feel the fleas crawling over this stuff. What happened to castles being fit for a king?”

Charlie laughed. “Dude. You’ve got to be kidding. This is the smell of –“

“authenticity?” Dean finished. “Yeah, OK. I could do with a little less authenticity and a little more bleach.”

He looked at Sam – who had crossed over towards the far side of the hall, his boots stirring more unpleasant smells out of the dirty debris. He had stopped, now, directly in the path of a shaft of light from one of the leaded windows. It lit the curls of his still-damp hair like a halo, silhouetted his broad shoulders and the tentative hunch of his back; emphasising the uncertainty that had somehow grown up around Dean’s brother over the past couple of years. When Sam was young he had been strident and passionate and always defiant, chin jutting and arms wide as he leant towards their father in another disagreement. Sam had still been that way when Dean had picked him up from Stanford, spiky and self-assured despite the rawness of his grief. But at some point, things had changed. When Sam got out of the cage, perhaps, got his soul stuffed back in and a load of someone’s guilt along with it. Before that, even. When he opened the box and let Lucifer out and started not to feel so sure about the steps that his feet were taking.

Whatever way it was, this quiet fearful man with the sharp cheekbones and elbows made Dean uncomfortable. He wanted, sometimes, to shake Sam up, tell him to sort it out and stop pansying around and get back to being himself. But then. He wasn’t one to talk, right now, about being himself. Not with the Mark throbbing on his forearm and the constant urge to bloody violence tickling like an itch under his skin.

Sam looked around, face half-shadowed, beckoning Dean and Charlie over with a lifted arm. “Guys!” he said. “Charlie! You’re not gonna believe this!”

By the time Dean had picked his way across the cleanest parts of the straw to reach them, Charlie was stood at Sam’s side, her mouth a round O of astonishment and delight. The pair of them were looking at a piece of furniture, stood on the raised wooden dais that filled one end of the hall, furthest from the door through which they’d entered. It was an enormous circular table, dotted around with tall-backed chairs and with names etched into the table before every seat. Dean cast his eye over them, surreptitiously trying to determine what had got Sam and Charlie so hot and bothered. Hector. Tristan. Pellinore. Mordred. Lance – oh. Lancelot. 

He got it, then, although what it really meant was something it would definitely take a while to parse. But yeah, this must – this had to be the round table. They were in Camelot.

Trying to process what that meant, Dean slowly caught on to Sam and Charlie’s excitement. The pair of them were buzzing with it, silly, pointing out the names of the knights to one another with giggles and gasps. Dean tried to remember what he knew about them all. He knew Arthur, of course, the king who (now, was this right?) had been given his sword by some mysterious woman in a lake. Dumb thing to do, Dean thought to himself – take a weapon from a secretive monster you know nothing about. The Mark burned on his forearm, accusing, and he brushed the thought away. 

He knew Lancelot, too, although he couldn’t remember much about him. Dean had a lingering feeling the guy might be kind of a stud. Aside from that, these names were foreign to him. But, oh, that wasn’t quite right; he knew Sir Galahad, whose chair was actually right in front of where he stood.

Dean stepped forward, to have a closer look – and was shocked to find his passage blocked by his brother, Sam suddenly intervening with a hand on his chest.

“Sammy?” he said.

“Sorry, Dean,” said Sam, falling back with an anxious expression. “It’s just. That seat is kinda dangerous.”

“The siege perilous, right?” said Charlie.

“Siege?” said Dean.

“Seat,” said Sam. “It’s Middle English.”

“So what’s the peril?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh… it’s sort of… cursed.” Dean waited. “OK. There were a bunch of knights who came to join the crew, wanted to sign up to serve under Arthur and took this seat around the table. You can see, right, there’s limited space. But for some reason this particular seat was really unlucky. Everybody who sat there died, basically straight away – it just killed them, choked them up and finished them off. That was until Galahad came along.”

“He survived?”

“He survived. He didn’t know why or how, nobody did. But the fact he could sit in the Siege Perilous and live was basically a sign of his worthiness. It’s how they knew that he would be the one to find the Holy Grail. You know. He was the purest of the knights. All that.”

“Purest, huh?” Dean took an ostentatious step back, and Sam smiled, thinly, a tired effortful grimace that made Dean sad.

“No offence, Dean,” Sam said.

Dean shook his head, took off around the far side of the table to look at the throne. But he took a quick glance back, looked at Sam standing with filling eyes and gazing at Galahad’s seat, fingers flexing as if he’d almost like to touch it. Don’t even think about it, buddy, Dean thought. And then found himself flashing back, to a hotel hallway in Colorado, Sam flushed and shaking with fever, babbling about some comic book that Dean couldn’t even remember. “These trials. They’re purifying me.”

Well, everybody knew how that had turned out, and Dean was definitely not in the right frame of mind to see Sam returning to that same kamikaze, self-hating state. ‘Not clean.’ The whole thing was ridiculous – stupid. And he tried to think back, to how Sam must have been, back then when they were reading those comics, all fat little arms and dimples and curls. It hurt, thinking of that wide-eyed kid fretting over something that he felt was broken inside. Had that been Dean’s fault, somehow? No, fairer to blame Dad for it – Dad who had known something was off with Sam for years before he’d told them, and who knew how he’d shown it in the way that he handled his sons. 

Charlie interrupted Dean’s thoughts. “Do you think that’s where they’re all gone? Hunting the Holy Grail?”

Sam looked thoughtful. “Could be,” he said. “Or they might have been gone for centuries.”

And then, all three of them jumped almost out of their skin as the low burr of an English voice sounded over the other side of the hall, from which they’d come.

“Not centuries. More like six months.”

There was a man standing in the doorway; a peasant, Dean supposed you might call him, dredging up the appropriate word from some dictionary part of his mind.   
“Have you come here to help us?” asked the man; and then, assessing their wet clothes and concerned expressions, “Or have you come here seeking help yourselves?”

Sam stepped forward, hands upraised, sliding into his most charming mode. “We’re a little lost,” he said. “Could you tell us what’s going on? How many of you are there, here?”

The man looked bashful. “Maybe forty-odd.”

“Where are you living?”

“In the cellars, and in the kitchens,” said the man.

“Do you – are you the staff here? The servants?”

“Oh no. Not for the most part. We most of us come from the village down below.” He gestured, away from the woods, towards the land behind the castle where the three of them hadn’t yet been.

“So why are you in the castle? And where’s everybody else?” Sam said.

“Well,” the man said, awkward. “We don’t rightly know. Just that they all vanished, one by one, maybe six months back; set out with a fanfare, on a quest, like, walked out the gates, through the village, and never returned. So when the last of them left, we started to worry. The castle keeps us safe. And then when the beast came by again, well, we just took ourselves up to the castle, had Margaret let us in – she’s Jim’s daughter, she works in the kitchens – and since then we’ve been here, keeping ourselves to ourselves.” He looked guilty, shifting from foot to foot, fingers playing with the corner of his shirt. “We’ve not broke anything,” he said. “And we’ve kept to the kitchens, to the proper parts of the castle. I only came out here because we thought you might be them, come back. But there hadn’t been a message, you see.”

“So do you think –” Sam began – but Dean interrupted, stepping forward to catch the man’s gaze. 

“Did you say something about a beast?”

As if it had been waiting on his word, there was a sudden, distant howl – the noise that had brought them into the forest and away from their camp. The villager visibly jumped.

“Aye, the beast!” he said. “Can you hear its cry?”

“Can we get up onto the battlements?” Sam asked. The villager nodded, guiding them up a staircase that led out of the hall. It was narrow and spiral, twisting around upon itself over several uneven storeys which took the group, eventually, up and out onto the walkway that ran around the castle walls. 

“There it is,” said the villager, pointing with a trembling hand.

They were high up, here, where they stood; but the monstrous appearance of the thing was clear. It looked like a whole bunch of animals smooshed together: a scaly, snaky face leading on to a hairy, catlike body and the muscular haunches of a deer. But it was the sound that came out of its open mouth that really bothered Dean, sending the tingling memory of half-forgotten agony up his spine. It was hard to credit that this single creature could sound so fearsome; but all of the howling voices that had prompted them from their bed came pouring plural out of this single throat. Every time the creature bellowed, it was with the noise of a thousand hounds, booming in unison with the thrill of the chase.

“What the hell,” said Dean, succinctly.

Beside him, the villager shivered in fear. “It came through our village, rampaging.”

“Did it attack anyone?” Sam said.

Dean frowned. That seemed very much beside the point.

The village looked confused. “Everybody hid. And then sought refuge in the castle. It has been many decades since the beast last ventured this close. But with the knights gone and the place deserted… it’s lost its fear.”

“Don’t worry,” said Dean. He clapped the dude heartily on the back, then wished he hadn’t as his hand came away sticky with dirt. “We’re experts in this kind of thing. Y’know? Just… set us up with some food.”

“Maybe some armour,” Sam said.

“And we’ll be on our way,” Dean concluded.

The man looked at him anxiously, casting his eyes over their faces. “You are knights, then?”

“Yes we are!” said Charlie.

“Even the woman?”

“Uh… did you not hear me, dude? I said yes, we are.”

Sam nodded and drew himself up to his full, intimidating height. “The lady fights nobly,” he said.

The villager nodded, obsequious. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

They might have swum ignominiously into the castle through the storm drain, but they left it next morning in decidedly more elegant style, clanking ceremoniously out through the front gate, portcullis hanging metal-toothed over their heads. “This is more like it,” said Charlie enthusiastically. “Fighting monsters! Living the dream!”

Sam looked at her, silent. Dean was already leading them, out up ahead.

And then, as they entered the forest, Sam fell to his knees with a cry; dropping his helmet, fists tangling in his hair. Shocked, Charlie crouched down beside him, patting ineffectually at his shoulders and hands. 

Instantly, Dean was there beside her, shouldering her out of the way. He set his hands at either side of Sam’s face. “Sam, Sam, look at me, Sammy,” he said. But Sam moaned, turning down and away from him, curling in a ball on the ground. His eyes were closed and his whole face was contorting in pain. It looked like the world’s worst headache – like his skull was gonna explode.

Dean looked up at Charlie, “I think he’s having a vision.”

“Like in the books?” said Charlie, excited and then regretting it. 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Like in real life,” he said.

“Sorry,” Charlie said. “Sorry. Only… sometimes I kinda forget. You know. You guys were so different then than you are now. Especially Sam. I thought he got all of that stuff… out of his system?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Yeah. So did I.” And then Sam was waking, unclenching from his fetal position and gasping like he was coming up for air. So Dean did what he always had to, falling forward onto his knees and rubbing Sam’s back, helping him sit upright and ground himself and start feeling a little more certain about where he was. Of course, it was a shame that ‘where he was’ wasn’t back in the Bunker, where things were pretty much normal; but out here in the middle of nowhere, stuck in some kind of alternate reality that currently seemed to offer them absolutely no hope of getting back home. But, there it was; and there they were, as usual, right where they’d rather not be.

Sam’s breathing was calming now, and Dean leant forward, solicitous, trying to catch his eye. “How are you doing, bro?” he said.

Sam nodded. He still wasn’t ready to speak. So Dean continued rubbing his back, soothing circles across Sam’s shoulderblades, blushing as he caught Charlie watching his hand. Great. This was probably the kind of thing she lived for. What had she called it? A ‘broment’. Great.

“How you doin’, kiddo?” said Dean, again. This time, Sam nodded, cleared his throat. “What’d you see?”

“The Grail,” Sam choked. His skin was a nasty shade of grey, sweat standing out on his forehead. But his eyes were determined and dark.

Charlie squeaked in excitement. “The Holy Grail? You saw it?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure. It was… like, in a chapel. There was all this light.” He moved his hand vaguely in front of him. “I think it was important.”

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “I’d say the Grail is pretty important.”

But Sam was shaking his head. “No. Important for us.”

Dean waited.

“I think we gotta look for the Grail.”

“Sure,” Dean said. “Right after we hunt the beast.”

Sam turned towards him, brow furrowed in fuggy incredulity. “No,” he said. “Forget the beast. Who cares about the beast? We gotta look for the Grail.”

He obviously wasn’t fully himself. Dean couldn’t remember the last time his brother had flat-out contradicted him like that. More usually, Sam would dance around their disagreements with irritating caution, trying to placate Dean before he put across his point of view, heaving a reluctant sigh before restating it with an exaggerated gentleness that usually just succeeded in making Dean mad.

But apparently Sam couldn’t win, because Dean could feel himself becoming increasingly frustrated right now. And yeah, maybe it was to do with the Mark, with the strain that came of keeping quiet the murder tempting under his skin. Or maybe, more likely, Sam was just being a bitch.

“Come on, dude,” Dean said. “We need to find this monster, right? That’s why we came here. That’s what we do.” 

“Why do you always have to be charging after the nearest thing to kill?” Sam asked. “We don’t know anything about this monster. We don’t know what its deal is. It could be just, like, some mindless animal. It hasn’t hurt anyone, as far as we know.”

“Uhhhh… better hunt a monster than go off on some pointless search for, what, like a magical… shot glass? What do you think this Grail’s actually gonna do, anyway?”

Sam’s face shuttered over. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“What,” Dean said. “Didn’t see that in your dream?”

“Come on Sam,” said Charlie, bouncy, trying to mend the mood. “Or didn’t you see?”

“Not exactly,” Sam said. “I think… you know. It’s holy. It’s… kind of… purifying, I think. Something like that.”

“Something like that,” Dean said. “Great. So motivational.”

“Come on,” Sam said. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. I don’t have – I mean – when I was having visions before, years ago, they usually meant something, right?”

“Sure,” said Dean, “People were dying in those visions, Sam. What even happened in this one? You turned up in some random church and saw a glow in the dark goblet? Big deal. Let it go.”

“It’s not –“ Sam was getting frustrated, struggling upright. “Dean, it’s really important. You know, this – this purity thing –“

“Oh I get it,” Dean said, surprising himself with the force of his rage. “Ever since we got to the castle and saw that godforsaken table, the perilous seat, whatever, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And here it comes. All that horseshit you were laying on me during the trials, this crap about you not being clean. Seriously, Sam. What do you think is gonna happen? Lay hands on this magical cup and all your sins get forgiven? Yeah, good luck. Newsflash: the universe doesn’t work that way.” 

“It’s not just touching the cup,” said Sam – and then cut himself short, looking at Dean with an uncertain expression that just had to signify trouble.

“What, then?” Charlie said. 

Dean smiled, a shit-eating grin of the kind that he knew drove Sam crazy. “Yeah, Sammy. What then?” he said.

“Nothing,” Sam said.

“Come on, Sam,” Dean said, letting an edge slide into his voice. “Tell us. Then maybe I’ll change my mind.”

Sam looked at Charlie, looked at Dean.

“You have to drink from it,” he said. “It’s a communion chalice.”

“OK.” Dean wasn’t sure why Sam had been so reluctant to tell him. Drinking from a cup? Seemed pretty innocuous, right?

“What do you have to drink?” Charlie said.

Then Dean knew, clear as if he’d had a vision himself.

“Blood,” he said.

Sam flushed, looked down and away, raised a hand to the back of his neck. Oh yeah. That was it. Dean could feel the anger boiling over, feel the Mark start heating and his veins start bubbling and his muscles start to tingle with the need for a fight. Just let Sam try it, let him say one word and Dean would be on him like a truck.

“Is that it, Sam?” he said. “After all this time, I thought you’d put that stuff behind you. But no. Once an addict, always an addict. You’re just jonesing for a hit.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sam said, choked. “It’s not… it wasn’t demon blood.”

“Oh right,” Dean said. “I hadn’t realised that you were such an expert psychic that you could tell the difference between blood types in your dreams. I’m so sorry. My mistake. Or is it like a connoisseur thing? Like fine wine? Do you never forget?”

And then Sam was up, in his face, pushing forward with an anger Dean had almost forgotten, something he’d not seen in Sam since… and he tried to remember. Maybe since that time he sent Sam a text that was supposed to be from his girlfriend, sent him off down to Kermit Texas while Dean made things straight with Benny. Sam hadn’t found that funny, or clever, had been simmering with righteous rage when Dean called in at his motel room the following day. But even during that confrontation, he’d held back. No. This was something Dean hadn’t seen for years, not since Sam strangled him into unconsciousness on the floor of a honeymoon suite. It was something about the blood, something about the thought of it that riled Sam like nothing else did, pressing at every one of his buttons and making him mad.

And now, “Do you think I’m an idiot?” said Sam, chest right up against Dean’s, chin jutting, arms out wide. “Do you think I’m so stupid and so un-self-aware that I’d ever, ever put that stuff into my body again? Do you think I didn’t think of it, when you turned demon, think that maybe I’d have to do it in order to get you back? Christ, Dean, I thought… and I didn’t do it, alright? I didn’t do it then and there’s no way in hell I’m going to do it now. I know… I know that I failed the trials, and that I’ve got all kinds of junk crawling inside of me. Demon blood. Gadreel’s grace. There’s no way I’m going to make myself filthier than I already am.”

Back amongst the trees where she’d retreated, Charlie shocked still. She had read this, of course. She’d read about the demon blood, a little; although Chuck’s handling of that storyline had been one of his odder narrative choices, leaving the blood stuff until the fifth series of the books so that it felt like a retcon when it was finally mentioned. She’d read a lot about Sam’s pain, and how anguished he felt; how much of a freak, how desperate, how repulsed by his own insides. But seeing it in front of her was different, more real, more painful; just like how this Camelot was dirtier, colder, less bright and celebratory then her headcanon had made it before.

And more to the point, what was up with Dean? She’d been touched, at first, by his sweetness when Sam was suffering, the way he rushed instinctively to his brother’s side. But now he seemed to be so aggressive, so confrontational, not listening to Sam at all. Maybe, Charlie thought, those were just sibling dynamics; maybe she just didn’t understand how brothers liked to relate. Or maybe, there was something else going on, something wrong that they’d not told her about. Maybe Dean was ill, or Sam was ill, and that was why Dean was angry; maybe this was all bound up with the fiasco of the trials. She didn’t know. But it seemed like they were going to get into a fight, like a real, physical, dangerous fight, right this second. She had to intervene.

“Hey, guys!” she said, straining to be cheerful, voice trembling despite her intent. “How about a deciding vote?”

They looked at her, both breathing hard, right up in one another’s faces. Dean’s hands were clenched into fists. As he saw Charlie notice, he relaxed them, splaying out his fingers, falling back.

“Deciding vote,” he said. “Sure.”

“I think…” and Charlie swallowed, because, she liked Dean, right? She felt like they’d connected, properly, like he was easier to get to know. But right now, he was also pretty scary, way more prickly and hostile than she’d ever seen him before. Probably, she was being stupid not to just agree with him. But on the other hand. Sam was right. Right? His visions had turned out to be important, way back when. And also… this was Charlie’s jam. You know. Quests. The Holy Grail.

So, “I think we should look for the Grail,” she said. And didn’t waver, because however grumpy Dean Winchester got, she felt pretty confident that he wouldn’t hit a girl.

“Oh,” said Sam, softly, like he was surprised to hear her taking his side.

And, “Oh,” said Dean, angry, starting towards her, raising his hand.

Charlie stepped backwards in dismay – but Sam was already defending her, already moving to put himself in front of Dean.

“Hey,” he admonished, and Dean shot him a look of absolute red-eyed fury that made Charlie’s stomach turn. “Careful. She’s just giving her opinion.”

“Yeah. Some opinion,” said Dean. “Whoop de do.”

“I thought… didn’t we agree that she’d cast the deciding vote?” Sam said, a little less certain.

Dean looked directly at him, then, eyebrow raised in challenge.

“We didn’t decide anything, little brother,” he said; and spun on his heel, made to start walking on in the direction that they were already heading. 

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said. “Don’t be an idiot. If we get separated –”

Dean turned towards him. “Oh, right, I’m an idiot, now?” He looked at Charlie. “Don’t blame me when Sammy here goes all demonic at the slightest scent of blood. I’m going. See you back at the camp.”

Yeah, right, Charlie thought. Back at the camp. That seemed so unlikely. And her heart constricted, a little, at the thought of all her friends, out there in the woods, probably missing them all already; would they call the police? Could anybody find them, here? Would they ever get back?

“Dean –“ said Sam again, uncertain. But Dean didn’t look back.

~~~

As he paced quickly on through the trees, Dean could feel his heart pounding, thumping against the metal around his chest. This wasn’t him, walking out on Sam. Although… he’d done it last summer, hadn’t he? Run away and left his brother grieving and confused and alone; headed out with Crowley on a weird bromantic odyssey through America’s seedier small-town bars. Ugh. He shook off the thought.

What he couldn’t shake off was the Mark, burning insistent under his skin. Kill, kill, kill. The thing was getting desperate for it – Dean was getting desperate. He’d scared himself, lashing out at Charlie. She was only a kid, and yeah, so her judgement was clouded by some ridiculous obsession with ‘quests’, but she didn’t deserve to be hurt. He’d been blind, for a second, with anger, flashing forward to the comforting feel of his hand round her throat. So it was probably good that she’d chosen Sam. It might not be safe for her to be hunting with him, right now.

On the other hand. They could all be together. But Dean couldn’t worry about that, had to keep pushing forward, do what he was supposed to do, kill the beast and save the villagers. Right? And if the convenient side-effect of that was to dampen down the rushing of bloodlust in his veins, well, then that was just happy coincidence. He’d have made this choice either way around.


	4. Chapter 4

The enormous trail of broken trunks and branches and foliage that the beast left behind it made hunting it one of Dean’s more straightforward jobs. No long stretch on the laptop carefully chronicling its movements; no making of traps, no laying of bait. Instead, Dean just strode out in the wake of the chaos that the monster had created, sword weighing heavy and comfortable in his hand. OK, so it wasn’t the Blade. It didn’t feel like a bloodthirsty extension of his arm, perfectly balanced and deadly sharp and throbbing with the power to kill. But it was a good enough sword, and it flashed suggestively in the light, and what with that and the weight of the armour on his shoulders, Dean felt pretty good about his chances in this fight.

Say what you wanted about the monster, though, the thing could move; and Dean found himself walking for several hours through the mess it had left him without seeing or hearing a trace. It was then that he began to hear the noise of water – not the rushing of a river, but something altogether more tinkling and artificial – sounding through the trees up ahead. So he was surprised, but not totally shocked, when he emerged through a break in the treeline to find a clearing with a fountain at its centre; and dozing by its side, a knight. 

The man started up at the sight of Dean, hand flashing to the sword at his side. Dean blinked, overwhelmed for a second by a vision of the guy falling backward, throat slashed and life spraying out of him in a bloody, satisfying gush. His own hand tightened around the grip of his sword. But he could fight this. So he swallowed, breathing deeply, tamping it down. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I got no fight with you.”

The man looked cautious for a moment. Then his features relaxed, opening into a friendly smile. He held out his hand, sandy hair falling over his face as he leant forward. He was good-looking, in a washed-out kind of way; features verging on the colourless, mouth soft and chin recessive and weak. A bit of a pansy, Dean thought, even if he was a knight. But still, a friendly face was a friendly face; and the guy might be able to give him something useful on the beast. You never knew. 

“Dean,” Dean said.

“Sir Pellinore,” said the Knight. Then he looked at Dean expectantly. Maybe Dean should know that name? Actually, now he thought of it, he was pretty sure that it’d shown up engraved into that table; that this guy was one of Arthur’s circle.

“Do you… have you come from the castle?” asked Dean. “From Camelot? Do you know where everybody went?”

Sir Pellinore sighed, deeply and dramatically, rearranging his body into a melodramatic pose of dismay complete with theatrical hand across the forehead. Dean raised his eyebrows, smirked.

“Alas! My brothers have all departed on a futile, fruitless, quest for the Holy Grail.”

“Huh,” said Dean. “And you?”

Pellinore opened his eyes where they had been closed in mock-anguish, directing a peevish look at Dean. “Did you not hear my introduction? I am Sir Pellinore.”

“Sorry, dude,” Dean said, aiming for apologetic. “I’m not from around here.”

“From generation to generation,” Pellinore intoned, “my forebears have hunted the questing beast. From the sprightly days of their youth to the bent and painful dragging of their age, every step has been bent in pursuit of this terrible monster. The quest for it is a birthright handed down with great moment from father to son.”

“The questing beast?” Dean said. “And you quest after it?”

Pellinore looked at him, unamused.

“Questing? Quest? Seems a little unlikely.”

Still nothing.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dean. “But… I think maybe I’m after the same thing. Kinda huge, scaly, leopardy, liony, deer...y? Makes a helluva noise?”

He was surprised by Pellinore’s reaction. The sandy man’s face lit up and his whole body language shifted, so that he was bouncing enthusiastically on the balls of his feet. “Indeed! My friend! Oh, ‘twould be surely delightful to find a companion in my burdensome quest!”

“Oh,” said Dean. ‘Companion’.

“For many years,” Pellinore said, “the beast has terrorised our villagers, plowing through their markets and houses on a course of wanton destruction. Its strength is legendary and its ferocity unabated, the necessity to destroy it only growing more urgent with time.”

“Right,” Dean agreed. He knew Sam’d been being an asshole.

“You can only imagine my sorrow and frustration,” Pellinore continued, “when all of my compatriot knights abandoned me, leaving this mission, the blood of my life, to partake in their selfish quest for the Grail. What is the Grail? What are its powers? What its meaning? Surely the slaying of a mighty beast is a greater cause!”

And Dean found himself agreeing, again. “Don’t even tell me about the friggin’ Grail,” he said. OK, so this dude was a little… emotional, a little less butch and intimidating than Dean had expected the knights to be. But he obviously had his head screwed on right, had a better idea about what mattered than any of the rest of them – or than Charlie, or Sam. So yeah, why not work together? Dean hadn’t wanted to work with Benny, at first, either, and the guy had turned out to be solid. So, “Lead on, brother,” he said.

Pellinore beamed.

~~~

“OK, so, we’re in the woods,” said Charlie. “What now?” 

“I guess… this way?” said Sam. He didn’t know, like really didn’t and it was all beginning to seem stupid. How could he have thought that he’d be able to complete this quest, when they knew for certain, both of them, that the rest of the knights had been months at the very same task? What made him so cocksure about finding it? There’d been nothing useful of the kind in his dream, just a vision of the cup, of a chapel, and the absolute certainty that this was what he had to do. And he’d been missing that certainty, since the months he’d spent absolutely driven in the hunt for Dean – since the moment in the bunker when he’d felt, for a brief, dizzy moment, that he’d finally completed a task. Of course, he’d failed at it, as it turned out. He’d fumbled it like he’d fumbled the trials, delivered his brother from demonhood but left him ticking with the power of the Mark. Another failure in a great long line of them. So why should the Grail be any different?

The thing was, this time, he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t fair to lead Charlie into the woods and then lead her back out of them, confess to her he was totally lost and that she ought to turn back after Dean. She’d put her trust in him and he should at least endeavour to deserve it.

So he drew up his shoulders, laid his hand on his sword and looked around. The trees spread out in every direction, identical, intimidating, dark.

And then he saw it, a movement through the trees, something white and glowing through the shadow of the woods.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said, pointing. “Did you –“

She nodded. “Over there.”

Together, they moved towards it, clambering carefully over the densely knotted roots. The shape had stopped moving, and as they approached Sam was able to see it properly. An enormous stag, silent and majestic and huge.

“I think we need to follow it,” he said, although he hadn’t known that that was what he thought before shaping the words. As soon as they were out of his mouth, though, he knew; knew that the stag was helping them, that he was part of their quest.

“Absolutely, man,” said Charlie. And to the stag, “Lead on, buddy.”

It did, walking at a steady, rapid place; guiding them certainly and surely through the forest, down into dips and up over hills and through acres and acres of trees. Finally, it brought them out beside an enormous river; and paused there, looking upstream. Then suddenly, as fast as it had appeared, it was gone.

“Are we there yet?” asked Charlie. They very obviously weren’t. But the river was wide and dark, and the prospect of crossing it wasn’t inviting.

“I guess… we continue up the river?” Sam said.

Charlie shrugged, nodded, still happy and excited. 

~~~

That excitement didn’t last. Not over the course of the next two days; not as the rain kept on falling and the river kept on rushing and they walked on, quiet now, not hearing or meeting anybody. 

“I hope the stag wanted us to go this way,” Sam would say, occasionally, still wrestling with self-doubt.

“Sure he did,” Charlie would reply.

And then they would be silent, pacing on for the next few hours. 

Charlie didn’t want to be mean to Sam. She did think that they were going the right way, and she knew that he was suffering as much as her; that he was likely just as chilled, just as tired and hopeless. Sleeping on the wet ground just inside the treeline hadn’t proven particularly soothing; there were too many beasties out in the woods, so that one of them had to stay awake to guard for the other, and they didn’t want to stop for too long, so that they were only getting a few hours’ sleep at a time. Add to that that they were hungry, and it was too wet for a fire; so even if they had been able to catch a bird, or a rabbit, or a fish, it would have been a whole lot more complicated to try and eat it; and they had long since burned through the protein bars in Sam’s bag. They had some of the salted meat that the villagers had given them, but who knew how long they’d be walking for? It seemed sensible to save their rations. And so she was hungry, as well as being cold, and miserable; with the glamour and excitement of the quest slowly ebbing away.

On top of that, her armour was heavy, really heavy in a way that the cosplay stuff never was. She didn’t know if it was to do with technology – maybe people were better at making lighter, more efficient armour nowadays – or purpose – the LARPing stuff didn’t really have to work – but either way around, the small suit that she’d snagged from the castle was heavy and uncomfortable and really not a lot of fun to be wearing, not during a long-haul hike through the woods.

She sneaked a glance at Sam, pacing beside her, silent, thoughtful as always. 

“I could murder a burger and fries,” she said.

Sam smiled: effortful, unnatural, kind. “You oughta get Dean to make you a burger, one day. It’s his speciality. He’s a pretty good cook.”

Charlie nodded. And then, because fuck it, why not ask him, “Hey. What’s going on with Dean?”

Sam’s brow furrowed, his mouth twisting uncertainly. He obviously wasn’t sure how much he ought to reveal. “Uh. He’s having a little trouble,” he offered reluctantly. “Some… supernatural stuff.”

“Gee thanks,” said Charlie. “Sure you won’t have to kill me for knowing too much?”

Sam smiled, genuine now, shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s not my secret to tell, you know? He’s just… he’s not himself lately and I don’t know how to fix it. I mean. We know the problem but we can’t make it go away.” He paused. “Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

Charlie shook her head. “It’s OK.” She paused, then, wondering if there was something else she ought to say - something about the stuff that Sam had spilled out during his confrontation with Dean. Like, if he really still felt that way about himself, then maybe someone ought to tell him that whatever he felt was inside him, none of it mattered - not really. He was a lovely, kind, sweet, brave, _good_ guy.

She opened her mouth, trying to frame the right words to begin her sentence. But then she stopped. Sam was distracted, looking over her shoulder, surprised. He pointed and yeah, she could see what he was looking at – looming through the dusk, at a point where the river widened up ahead, the small strong keep of a castle. There were lights at the windows and even from where they stood, Sam could hear the soft sounds of music drifting over the water.

“Oh man,” said Charlie. “Warmth!”


	5. Chapter 5

This castle by the river was nothing like Camelot – maybe a sixth or an eighth of the size. It was really just one stone keep, solid and circular and strong.

As they stood uncertain outside it, the main gate flung open with a bang. A woman, bright-faced and brightly dressed in blue, smiled at the bedraggled travellers standing outside. Her face was fresh, pretty and inviting; the whole picture couldn’t have been more welcome, nor stood in greater contrast to the drizzly, empty wilderness at their backs. “Welcome, friends,” she said. “Come in. Join us. Eat.”

“Sure thing, lady,” said Charlie, happily; before Sam’s hand at her shoulder pulled her back. “What’s your problem, dude?” she hissed. “Don’t you want to get something to eat? Maybe take a bath?”

“Charlie…” Sam said. “You know the stories. This doesn’t seem right. Who are they? Why are they inviting us in? I just don’t think it’s safe.”

Charlie shook her head. “You’re too cautious, bro, you know that? Haven’t you read your fantasy literature? We have guest-right! They can’t just… you know… slaughter us in our beds. It’s, like, totally against the code of conduct around these parts.”

“You don’t know these parts, Charlie!”

“Come on, it’s basically Westeros.”

“Yeah, and I think we all remember the Red Wedding, am I right?”

Charlie frowned. Damn Stanford logic. This would have worked on Dean. So she tried another tactic. “Pleeeeeease?”

Sam wavered.

“I promise if anything looks weird, I’ll head out with you straight away. No questions asked.”

He was obviously still reluctant, but Charlie was pretty sure that Sam’s good nature would win out in the end. And yeah, it seemed she was right; Sam lifted his head and smiled at the girl still waiting patiently just inside the gate. “My friend wants to come in.”

“You are rightly welcome,” said the girl. “Come in. Join us. Eat.”

She stepped backward, gesturing them inside. 

~~~

“Are you seriously not going to eat anything?” Charlie asked Sam, again. “This is crazy! How are you going to find the Grail if you haven’t got the energy to walk?”

“I’m not… I’ll eat what I’ve got in my backpack. Charlie. I’m just… this doesn’t feel right.”

Charlie looked around her. They were in the castle’s hall, towards the head of one of three long wooden tables that stretched out across the floor. On a raised dais above them, the lord of the house sat with his wife and his children, faces pink and shiny with alcohol and sweat. A band was playing, people were laughing, and the tables were heaving with food. Charlie had been eating for a good twenty minutes and had barely made a dent in the plates stood in front of her.

“What’s so wrong about this?”

Sam looked uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry, Charlie. I just… I think I have to go.”

“Are you serious? Like, right now? You wanna just walk out the door – away from the bedrooms, which have beds in them, might I remind you – and into the rainy night?”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. I have to. I think… this sounds crazy. I think the stag is waiting for me outside. I keep seeing him.”

“Seeing him?”

“In my head.”

Charlie fought back the urge to roll her eyes. Damn stag. Then, “You can’t just go,” she said.

“Why not?” 

“It’s rude! We’ve accepted their hospitality!”

“I haven’t,” Sam said. “I haven’t eaten or drunk.”

As he spoke, the woman who had first let them into the castle appeared beside them, carrying a steaming jug of something in her hands. The sweet, heady scent of it flooded into Charlie’s nostrils, joining the delicious, savoury smell of the food.

“Sam,” she said, “You are legitimately crazy. Why would you walk out on this?”

The woman looked disconcerted. “Are you intending to depart?” she said.

Sam looked from side to side, obviously considering. “Yeah,” he said eventually, drawing himself to his feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean any rudeness. But… I’m a pilgrim. And I have to go on.”

The woman cast a quick glance up towards the platform, where the lord sat, cheeks pink and belly shaking in mirth. “It is not permitted,” she began.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said again. “But… I haven’t accepted your hospitality. I'm not formally a guest. And I'm going to leave.”

She hesitated, and he took advantage of the moment to begin backing outwards, extricating his long legs from underneath the bench. “Come on, Charlie,” he said.

Charlie didn’t want to. Like, she should have been concerned about the separation – about what would happen to her, and to Sam, if they were split up. But it was somehow hard to find the inclination. She was so completely full, and warm, and satisfied. And the rain was still beating hard against the castle windows, and the wind was howling, and it was so very dark outside. So… 

“You go on without me,” she said.

Sam was shocked. “Charlie, I can’t…”

“Don’t worry about it!” she told him. “It’s cool!”

Sam looked seriously suspicious; but their serving-woman was already at the side of the lord, whispering into his ear – and as they looked at him, he turned a glowering gaze towards in their direction. 

“ _Charlie_ ,” said Sam, tugging at her sleeve.

“I’m not going,” she told him, shaking her head with a smile. “It’s fine!” She could see him deciding, glancing anxious up at the dais and finally, resolved, shaking his head and turning to leave.

“Enjoy yourself!” Charlie called, watching his tall figure retreating rapidly out of the hall. Crazy kid. Why would you take yourself back out into the night, when you could be here, nice and cosy, surrounded by all these friendly faces, all these buxom ladies in their period dress? Dude must have a problem with self-punishment, she resolved. 

The serving woman was immediately back at her side. “Please, my lady,” she said. “Will you not drink?”

So Charlie did, upending the contents of the goblet into her mouth. It was just as delicious as its odour suggested, thick and viscous and fiery as it ran down her throat. “What is this stuff?” she asked the man beside her; but he barely looked at her, merely reached forward to take more food.

Up in the musician’s gallery, a man began singing, a honey-sweet song that caught the movement of Charlie’s dreamy, hazy mind. She was tired, so tired after her walking. It felt like any moment, she might drop off to sleep.

~~~

Charlie sat bolt upright in bed with a gasp, tugged out of a dreamless doze with a sharp yank right into her chest. What was that? And more to the point, where was she? She rubbed her forehead, frowning with the concentration of trying to remember. She couldn’t remember coming to bed… couldn’t remember much, actually, except that Sam had been increasingly reluctant all evening and that he’d slipped quietly, swiftly back out into the rain. 

She felt a sudden clutch of concern. What had she been thinking, letting him go on without her? She didn’t know what the hell she was doing here, and she was pretty sure that the helpful stag-shaped tour guide was a psychic Sam special. She’d casually abandoned her best chance of getting home – getting anywhere – safely, and what for? A warm meal, and a bed.

This bed wasn’t all that, anyway, not the fur-piled comfortable cosiness she’d been envisaging at dinner. In fact, the whole room was more like a cell in a monastery than a room in a castle: bare walls, narrow bed, nothing else at all. Moreover, the small window in the wooden door was covered over with strong iron bars. 

This didn’t seem good.

“Here goes,” breathed Charlie, swinging her legs off the bed, standing to find herself woozy but more or less stable. “Where have you put me, you weirdos?”

She tried the door, expecting it to be locked; but to her surprise, it swung open under her hand. Poking her head cautiously out into the corridor, she saw a row of identical doors extending in either direction. This was definitely odd. 

On the plus side, there were no guards visible; so she tiptoed out of her cell, made her way along to the next room. Standing on tiptoes, she peered through the bars. She could make out a figure lying in the bed. Somebody else, asleep. Well, of itself that wasn’t too weird, right? This might just be the bedroom… wing. But there was the same in every chamber, empty little cells with bodies breathing soft in the moonlight. There were people here, like way more people then there had been at dinner. Where had they all come from? 

Charlie sighed. Then she pushed open the nearest door, crossed the floor and looked down at the sleeper in the bed. 

Like most of the occupants of the bedrooms, it was a man; young and good-looking, his hair curling dark on the pillow. 

“Hey, dude,” said Charlie, shaking him. “Wake up.”

The man rolled over, his body pliant under her hand. His eyelids remained firmly closed.

“Seriously?” asked Charlie. She bent forward, to try calling him again right in his ear. The metal chain she was wearing around her neck swung down, catching across his cheek; and suddenly the man’s eyes shot open, sending Charlie startling back out of his way.

“What is it?” said the man, blinking. “Is it time to depart?” Then, looking around him, “Madam. I fear you have waked me too early. The sun is not yet up.”

“No,” agreed Charlie. “Sorry. I didn’t… Do you know how you got here?”

The man smiled, amused. “Why, lady, what a strange question. I was riding with my friends when we came upon this place. A very genteel maiden bid us enter and they feasted us royally.”

“And then what?” Charlie prompted.

A pause.

“And then we came to bed?”

“Ahhh. But do you remember it?” Charlie asked him.

“Well,” the man said, blustering it out. “Many nights have been lost to mead! Haha!”

“Sure,” said Charlie. “But not last night, I’m pretty sure. You weren’t at dinner. Not when I was here.”

“You must be mistaken,” said the guy. “We were revelling for hours! We were certainly there.” He looked at her quizzically. “And yet… I do not remember your face.”

“You and your friends,” said Charlie. “What are you actually up to? Like, where were you travelling when you turned up here?”

The man beamed. “We are hunting the Grail! Truly, a noble quest.”

“Been hunting it long?” said Charlie.

“Perhaps two or three weeks,” he said.

“And you’re… one of Arthur’s knights, are you?”

“Indeed! Sir Geraint, at your service.”

“And… two or three weeks, you say?”

Sir Geraint had begun to look worried. “Is there something wrong with my story, madam?”

“Just… just a thought,” Charlie said. “What month would you say it was when you arrived at this castle?”

“Why, September,” Sir Geraint said.

“Yeah. Some news for you, buddy,” Charlie told him. “We’re currently in March.”

Sir Geraint’s face froze in horror. “It cannot be!” he said.

“It definitely can… or does… be,” Charlie said. “Sorry about your wasted six months and all.”

The knight was silent, thinking. “And my friends?” he said.

“I guess they’re probably somewhere in the other rooms,” said Charlie. “You might have some trouble waking them up.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dean stole a glance at Pellinore, back flush up against a tree about twenty yards to his left. Behind them, the hooting noise of the howling beast sounded again. It had taken them long enough to get to this point, days of wearying wandering in the path of the animal before Dean had finally realised that the thing was moving in zigzags, managing after long discussion to persuade Pellinore to change their course and cut sideways through the forest, finally giving them the edge to catch up. So, here they were. 

“Follow your lead?” Dean bellowed, under cover of the roar.

Pellinore nodded ‘yes’.

Dean wasn’t a natural follower – that was for damn sure – but Pellinore had been adamant that he was the expert in this instance, recounting his family history at a length made ten times more tedious by the fact that Dean had heard it several times over already. So, Dean had finally conceded, not really too bothered about who was nominally leading now that the thing was so close by and the chance of a fight was before him. He was buzzing with it, jumping with jostling energy, sword flashing in his hand. Yeah. He was gonna sick it to this horrible creature and then maybe he could start to feel good about a job well done.

The noise came again, and it was upon them, crashing through the bushes and past Sir Pellinore’s outstretched sword. Pellinore yelled and charged after it, waving his weapon high in the air; and Dean ventured out behind him, to stand at the animal’s back.

It was certainly fearsome to look at, snake-mouth open to reveal sharp, dangerous fangs; and the blast of the noise that came from its throat acted with the force of a weapon, sending Pellinore stumbling back on his heels. Dean slashed at it and the thing wheeled around, clawing at him with one of its forepaws. He moved back, waiting for Pellinore to move in behind. But the knight didn’t seem to be really engaging, feinting dramatically with his sword but not making the killer blow into its side.

Dean didn’t get it. With the beast distracted, running towards him, Pellinore had a clear run. So why didn’t he take it?

There wasn’t a lot of time to think about it, as the thing swung round, heading back for Pellinore and leaving its back unprotected. Dean lunged at it, getting in a strike, a thick cut across its back flank that had the thing howling in pain. 

Pellinore looked at him in shock.

“Come on!” Dean said. But the beast had sensed the guy’s weakness and was storming towards him, building up speed as it ran.

God, Dean thought. This was so frustrating. He found himself missing Sam and their easy choreography, their ability to anticipate one another’s next move. This dude was just… erratic. Which made the whole thing a lot more dangerous.

And then Dean had a thought. If it was good enough for Harrison Ford…

Taking advantage of a particularly loud shriek from Pellinore, he dove back towards the tree where he’d left his bag, scrabbling frantically through the packages of food that he’d left there to find the comforting grip of his gun. Spinning back around, he saw the beast drawing back, towering over Pellinore, poised as though about to strike. 

Swift, practised, definite, Dean let the beast have it with all six cylinders, discharging bullet after bullet into its side.

~~~

Sir Geraint was becoming increasingly agitated, calling helplessly and at increasing volume into the unresponsive ears of his sleeping friends. He and Charlie had identified the pair pretty easily, found them sleeping in the rooms just beside Geraint’s. But they just refused to wake, breathing steadily and quietly and undisturbed no matter how much Charlie and Geraint shouted or slapped them around.

“Maybe we should try a different tactic,” said Charlie. “Maybe we need to go talk to the lord of the manor, or whatever you’d call him.”

Geraint’s face became thunderous. “Only show me a weapon,” he said to her, “and I will kill the man myself for this outrage he has visited upon my fellows and me.”

“Sure,” said Charlie, “Big talk. Big talk. But until we can find a weapon, let’s just have a sneaky look, OK?”

So they headed down the corridor together, breath sounding loud in the castle’s silent air.

It didn’t take long for Charlie to find her way back to the hall. It was empty, now, with the polished wood of the four long tables gleaming in the light from the moon. With Geraint behind her, she crossed towards the platform where the lord had been sitting. And then, from the musician’s gallery, she heard a cry.

It was the woman who had opened the castle gates, who had summoned her in and then poured her wine.

“How have you woken?” she asked Charlie. “What magic is this?”

Right, thought Charlie. Time to think on her feet. “Stand back, mortal! I am a powerful sorceress,” she said. 

Beside her, she could feel Geraint start backward. “Not really,” she hissed under her breath.

Then, louder, “I demand that you release your prisoners. No longer must you hold them under your spell.”

The woman’s face fell. “I do not have that power.”

“Then… you better take me to someone who does!” Charlie hoped that she was exuding more authority than she actually felt, that she wasn’t about to get herself into a magical fist-fight she’d definitely lose.

“As you wish, madam,” said the serving woman, turning and leading them on.

She took them up a staircase, into a lighted corridor where the hangings were rich and where noise emanated from all of the doors. At the end of it was an antechamber and through there, a bedroom where the lord lay fat and rosy in his bed. His wife was beside him, wrapped in a furry robe.

“Sir,” said Charlie. “I demand that you let your prisoners free.”

He spluttered in outrage. “These people are my right,” he told her. “They have accepted my hospitality. And I wish them to remain my guests.”

“Well… you can’t,” said Charlie. “Sorry. They want to go.”

The lord turned his attention to Geraint. “If I let you free, Sir Knight,” he asked him, “whither would you direct your steps?”

Geraint coughed. “I hunt the Holy Grail.”

The lord looked back at Charlie. “He must not leave.”

“Wait,” said Charlie. “I don’t get it.”

“Those who can be so easily distracted from their path,” said the lord, “Do not deserve to reach such a goal. So it has been ordained.”

He shrugged.

“My apologies, sorceress.”

“Wait,” said Charlie. “Wait. I feel like we can work this out.”

The man looked at her. “How about if these guys agree not to hunt the Grail. What do you reckon to that? How about if they say they’ll turn around – shut up, Geraint – and go back to the castle, where they belong, you know, to take care of the villagers and, I don’t know, do a bit of falconry… play the lute… actually, what do you guys do with your time?”

Geraint bristled. “Jousting. Fencing. Sometimes, I mean, sometimes feasting.”

“Sounds super noble,” said Charlie. “Whatever. So. What about that?”

The lord looked suspicious. “This is not how I was told it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Charlie. “Live a little. And just think… you could expand into that wing. Install a swimming pool. Or a… music room. I don’t know. Whatever.”

He was clearly considering it. He looked at his wife. “You have been wanting an additional chamber to display your tapestry.” Then, back to Charlie: “They must vow never to return to their quest.”

“Totally cool,” said Charlie. “Vows all around.”

Geraint nodded. “Just allow my friends out of their slumber.”

“And just to remind you,” Charlie said. “I’m a totally powerful sorceress. Like, I could turn you all into pigs. I’m being extremely merciful right now.”

The man blanched. “Do not harm me, lady,” he said. “I will let them go.”

~~~

Falling, the Questing Beast gave a nightmare sound, a screeching wheeze that grated at Dean’s nerves like nails on a blackboard, chorusing in a thousand wailing voices as it stuttered and fell. Pellinore flung himself out of its path as the thing crashed heavily down onto the floor, limbs sprawling and flopping until it finally stilled. A thick, dark blood oozed from its wounds.

Job well done, Dean thought. And he swaggered out of his hiding place, heading towards Pellinore to give him a slap on the back.

He was seriously discomfited when he found the knight on his knees, keening thinly, tugging violently at his long, tangled hair.

“You killed it!” Pellinore wailed, accusatory.

“Yeah,” said Dean, incredulous. “Yeah, man, I did.”

“Aaaahhhhhhh…” the knight was lamenting, sounds torn out of his breast like he was almost in pain.

“Is it…” Dean wracked his brain. “Is this, like, a pride thing? Are you bothered because you weren’t the one to take it down? Because, dude, I understand vengeance quests, like seriously, I would have let you do it but the thing was about to kill you! I didn’t want you to die.”

Pellinore was silent.

“Look, I don’t care about… about the honour, or the glory, or whatever,” Dean continued. “Seriously. I couldn’t care less. If you wanna tell everybody that you killed it…” - he looked critically at the beast - “I mean maybe you need to stab it a little but I’m sure they won’t question you too closely. Or just chop off its head, take that with you like a trophy. I don’t know how you guys do these things.”

Pellinore opened his mouth again and Dean was pretty sure he was going to agree with him, happy with taking the credit for completing his family quest. But instead, the knight began howling in earnest, tears spilling out of his pale blue eyes and over his cheeks.

“Dude,” said Dean, backing away. Then, because he was a good guy, really, stepping forward again. “Dude, what’s wrong?”

“What do I do nooooooooooooow?” sobbed Pellinore. “What – what – what do I dooooo without the beast?”

“Uhhh…” Dean wasn’t really equipped to handle this. “Did I do something wrong? I thought you were hunting the beast. I thought that was, you know, your whole life existence.”

“Exactly,” Pellinore cried. “I don’t know how to do anything else!”

This was ridiculous. “What, so you’re sad because you haven’t got anything else on the schedule? Haven’t you got, I don’t know, a girlfriend? Is there nothing else that you’d like to do?”

Pellinore jutted his chin, sulky, like a child. “No. No there is not. And it is not merely a matter of my… schedule. Being a Pellinore is hunting the beast. It’s the definition of my whole existence.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Right.” He was beginning to see why the rest of the knights might have bailed on this joker; might have left him alone to the hunt he never really wanted to end. “And… how many times would you say that you’ve fought him?”

Pellinore sniffled. “Several dozen at least. My prowess with the sword is legendary.”

“Huh,” said Dean. “I’ll bet.” He looked at the beast, still and heavy on the cold hard ground. “Sorry man, I don’t know what to say.”

Pellinore remained dejected, hunched over where he sat. Then suddenly, something seemed to strike him; he looked up with hope in his eyes.

“It is possible…” he began. “There is a great mage living in the forest.”

“Oh great,” Dean said. “Because witchcraft never causes problems.”

“Not a witch; a wizard,” Pellinore said. “Mayhap he will have the skill to revive the beast.”

“Just to get this straight,” Dean said. “You were hunting the beast. We killed the beast.” Pellinore sniffed again. “And now you want to find some magic dude to bring it back to life.”

Pellinore nodded. “Will you help me, friend?”

There was nothing else for Dean to do; he had no idea where Sam and Charlie might have headed, still less clue about the route he ought to take in order to get back home. And at least the prospect of finding a wizard seemed hopeful – maybe the guy could help him out with either or both of those questions. Plus, who knew what desperate thing Pellinore might do in his present condition? He didn’t really seem in the best frame of mind.

No, all things considered, Dean didn’t really have much of a choice. “Lead on, partner,” he said.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam’s feet were sore. His head ached with a relentless throb that he hadn't noticed beginning, but which felt like it had been pummelling his skull for days. And he was hungry, seriously hungry with the kind of gnawing stomach pain he couldn’t remember suffering since way way back in his youth, when he and Dean had been teenagers left without Dad’s supervision and (too often) a little short on money for food. But that had been fine, right? It hadn’t stunted his growth, hadn’t had any lasting effect beyond his inordinate enjoyment of good-quality vegetables, the kind you could only get in a farmer’s market or organic grocery.

Jesus. He really was tired, out here wandering in the middle of medieval nowhere and fantasising about organic fruit. And yeah, now he came to think about it, he was utterly exhausted. His vision was blurring. His legs were stumbling awkward and heavy beneath him. Maybe he should sit down just for a little while – try and get some sleep. But the moment his knees hit the ground, there it was – the white stag, hovering on the edge of his vision.

Sam lifted his head. “Really?” he said. 

The stag gazed at him, impassive.

“OK.” Sam swallowed, dragged himself painfully upright. He lifted his reluctant feet and pushed himself onward. The ferns clung wetly around his legs, rain slanting heavily against him. Here, beside the river, it was much more exposed and Sam found himself longing for the relative shelter of the forest. Just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the stag take a turn back into the woods. Thank God.

This part of the forest was so thick that the ground underfoot was barely damp. It was quieter, the rain muffled as it made its way down through the leaves and into the earth. Sam could hear his own ragged breathing as he walked, the clank of the sword buckled behind him. Somewhere, an owl hooted. It must be night again. Between the shade of the trees and his own hallucinogenic tiredness, it was getting hard to tell. 

Up ahead, the stag paused; and Sam realised that he himself had stopped, inadvertently, swaying where he stood. The animal turned its head towards him with what felt like recrimination.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m so tired,” Sam said.

Of course, it didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. It just began to move; and he limped after it, fighting to keep his eyes open, feet tripping continually over the debris on the forest floor.

~~~

“This cave right here?” Dean asked Pellinore. “You’re sure this is where he lives?”

“Certainly,” Pellinore told him, his whole attitude visibly brightening with renewed hope. The beast lay behind him, inert, trussed to a wooden sled. Pellinore had been lugging it with obvious effort, a weird parodic inversion of their usual relationship, the beast forced into a dragging, inadvertent pursuit. 

“Great,” Dean said – but then was distracted by a voice, calling his name.

It was Charlie, hurrying through the trees, beaming at the sight of her friend. “Duuuuude!” she said. “This is, like, a crazy coincidence! How come you’re here?” She caught sight of the beast. “Whoooah. You did it!” 

Dean grimaced. “Change of plan.”

“Huh?”

“I killed the beast,” said Dean. “But turns out this clown can’t live without it. So we’re gonna bring it back to life.”

Charlie looked at Pellinore, uncertain.

“My lady,” he said.

“Seriously,” said Dean, wondering if his face could convey one-tenth of the inexpressible weariness he felt about the whole business. “Just… don’t ask.”

“OK,” said Charlie cautiously.

Then Dean said, “Where’s Sam?”

“Interesting question,” Charlie said. “I think… still looking for the Grail.”

“You got separated?”

“Long story. Wine, women and song. You know. Little bit of a cursed castle, lost knights, the usual. Sam decided it wasn’t for him.”

“So what, he’s just out there in the woods on his own?”

“He’s a big boy,” Charlie offered. “I’m sure he’ll be OK.”

Dean didn’t like it. But if the wizard could help with anything, he could probably help with Sam, too. So he turned back to Pellinore. “You ready for this?”

The cave was dark, and twisting; Dean was grateful for the flat level of the ground underfoot. But before too long he became aware of a silvery glow, emanating from the depths of the cave, growing stronger as they headed further in. Before too long, the narrow passage emerged onto a much larger chamber, roof spiralling off in stone-fanged stalactites over their heads. In the centre of the room was a silver throne, with a man seated on it. His whole body was covered by the white threads of his long beard, which spilt down over his lap and onto the floor. It looked like he was asleep.

“Is this the guy?” Dean asked, though it was a ridiculous question. He was pretty sure you’d have to be magic just to grow that much facial hair.

Pellinore nodded dumbly, apparently struck still with fear. Typical. The dude was the worst kind of wuss. 

So Dean prepared to step forward – but before he could, the wizard jerked his head upright, fixing the three of them with the gaze of his beady blue eye. “Dean Winchester,” he said. “Charlie Bradbury. Pellinore of the Isles.”

Pellinore fell to his knees, tugging at Dean’s sleeve to pressure him down into kneeling too. Beside them, Charlie dropped into an awkward curtsey.

“What have you to ask me, travellers?” the wizard asked.

“Go on then, tell him,” Dean said to Pellinore. The knight shuffled forward, without getting up, head bowed and whole body shaking with obvious fear. “I ask only one favour, your most high and magical majesty. Would that you might find it in yourself to revive the Questing Beast?”

The wizard laughed. “You are a Pellinore?”

Pellinore nodded.

“And you wish me to bring back to life the same beast that your ancestors have eternally struggled to kill?”

Pellinore knotted his fingers together, silent, embarrassed.

“You are far from the first of your race,” said the wizard, “to make this request. And I will answer you as I answered the others. Go from me. Return to the mouth of the cave.”

“Oh.” A small, dejected sound.

“You will find that the animal has returned to its usual condition. You can continue your chase.”

Pellinore jumped to his feet with an agility that belied the weight of the armour he was wearing. Spinning around with an expression of ecstasy, he positively skipped back out of the cave. “Goodbye, Dean,” he called.

“And good riddance,” Dean muttered. What a trip. The guy was clearly completely nuts. Who spent their life dedicated to tracking down evil – if evil was even what that monster was – and then found a way to plough themselves straight back into the fight as soon as it seemed that they might at last have escaped it?

“Do not be so superior, Dean,” said the wizard. “Do you not see your own actions in him?”

That was just rude. Guy had no right breaking in on Dean’s thoughts like that. And anyway, he and Pellinore had precisely nothing in common. Dean was… well, he had to admit that he kind of liked hunting, that he did get something out of the fact that it gave him drive. You couldn’t fuss around worrying about the point of life, or finding yourself, or any of that crap that people got worried about, not when there were bad things out there in the dark that had to be killed. Wasn’t that why he’d chosen to obliterate what happened with Kevin by taking on the Mark and the mission it brought him? Going gung-ho after Abaddon and Metatron had let him give into his anger and drown out his guilt. So yeah, Dean supposed he might be able to see, a little, where Pellinore’s crisis had come from when he lost the beast.

And, yeah, maybe to an outside eye, to some dumbass like the wizard, it might maybe seem like Dean had been doing something like this reanimation; that he’d made his share of dubious bargains in his time. Wasn’t that more or less what Sam had said, when he was so mad with Dean over Gadreel? That Dean had only stopped him doing the trials because he was scared? That was when Sam had asked him, asked Dean to explain the point of why Sam was alive. Dean’s response had been immediate, certain, ‘You and me. Fighting the good fight.’ And yeah, maybe Sam had brushed that off. But for Dean, that was it. That was everything. Him and Sam. In the Impala. Hunting monsters. That was who he was. So maybe. Maybe this wizard guy had a bit of a point. Like half of a point. One-third.

~~~

Sam wasn’t sure but it felt like the forest was getting thicker, branches closing in tight around his face. And they were different – not the strong, sturdy limbs of the oaks that he’d been passing for hours, but something altogether wirier, darker, sharp. He brushed it off, moving forward, focusing his gaze on the stag as it retreated before him; when suddenly, he was brought up short.

Twisting round, he could see that the neck of his shirt had caught on a long, narrow thorn. And looking around him, he saw – that’s what they all were, all these plants. A great thicket of black thorns curling around him, and here he was right in the middle of them. He looked behind him. The route down which he’d come wasn’t as clear as it should have been. It didn’t look like it was nearly wide enough to pass through. Even as he watched, the thorns seemed to spiral back into place, blocking the path. 

“Huh,” said Sam. He tried to pull forward again, but it was really impossible now, the branches knitting together directly before his face. “OK.” He fought down the panic building in his throat. The stag wouldn’t have led him here if it wasn’t necessary. He could be sure of that. (Can you be sure of it? said a voice in his head. He led you to the castle, didn’t he? Some place that turned out to be.)

“Shut up,” Sam said – and froze, chilled through with the memory of another occasion where he’d found himself talking to the voices in his head. Not good. But he shook it off, and concentrated on wriggling his hand down towards his sword. It wasn’t easy. It felt like the thorns were alive, waiting snake-like in order to pounce at the most painful and inconvenient time, snagging on the flesh of his arms so that by the time he got a grip on the handle and managed to coax the weapon out of its case, he was covered from wrist to bicep with short, deep cuts.

At least the pain might help keep him awake. Which had to be the consolation as he drew back his arm, spearing it firmly onto a particularly vicious thorn, and began to thrash his way through the thicket.

It was like fighting a living thing, a kind of spiny octopus folding itself around him. Every time he managed to hack away at one clump of branches, hurrying himself forward into the resulting space, the air around him seemed to close up again with twice as many tendrils as there had been before. He could barely breathe with it. The thorns tore at his face and cut into at his sides. But he kept his head down, kept slashing with the sword, pushing steadily on. 

~~

“And now,” said the wizard, “what can I do for the pair of you?”

Dean looked at Charlie. “Can you help me find my brother?” he asked.

“He went after the Grail,” said Charlie.

The wizard looked grave. “Many men have been lost on that quest,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “I met a few of them already.”

“Can I just,” began Dean, and then paused. Was this a dumb question? But… fuck it. This whole world was dumb. “Can you just tell me what’s so great about the Grail in the first place? Like… my brother didn’t really tell me. And I’d like to know what all these guys are looking for. You know.”

The wizard nodded, slowly. “Of course. Well. The Grail is a high, holy object. The quest for it is akin to a religious pilgrimage, in many ways. Only the very purest of the knights can hope to find it. The others will find themselves carried astray on their path.”

“But what does it do?” said Dean.

“It is a vessel of purification,” said the wizard. “Drinking from the grail absolves the drinker of all of his sins, brings him to a state of near-angelic perfection.”

“Just so you know,” Dean said, “angels aren’t all that perfect.”

The wizard ignored him. “Its effect is such that the drinker may choose, after his encounter with the grail, to ascend directly; to join the Lord in heaven without living through his penance on earth.”

“Hang on, what?” said Dean. “Are you telling me that it’s gonna kill him?” God dammit, Sam!

“No.” The wizard was shaking his head. “The death is not necessary, nor instant. It is merely a privilege that the finder of the grail may take up; the choice to set down his earthly cares and to sit at God’s side in heaven, to continue in the ecstasy and the peace that he’s earned.”

Dean was silent, then, deliberately avoiding Charlie’s eye. This wasn’t good news. Yeah, sure, ‘not necessary or instant’. But Sam lately wasn’t really one for the joys of life. It was hard to picture him turning down that kind of offer – turning down the chance of the rest he’d been so long denied. Dean pictured his brother, sad and strained and weary, and he felt absolutely certain that Sam, granted heaven, would choose to die.

“Can you get us to him?” he asked the wizard.

“I can. I will give you two horses from my own stables. They will take you swiftly to the place where he is fighting. If it is possible to bring you there in time, they will.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Time to revive my own questing beast, I guess.”

“You will find the horses at the cavemouth,” said the wizard. And then, as they turned to go, “My lady.”

Charlie stopped, looked back at him. “I would thank you for the return of my necklace.”

“You what?” said Dean.

“I believe it is the reason for the three of you to be here at all,” said the wizard benignly. “It has found its way back to me.”

A slow expression of horror spread over Charlie’s face. She groped down the front of her armour, revealing a thick, heavy chain. “Are you telling me,” she said, “That this is why we’ve ended up here, running around this forest? That it’s my fault?”

The wizard smiled. “You should not be so quick to condemn the necklace. You would find on inquiry that you owe it your life. Had you not been wearing it you would never have woken after drinking the potion at the Castle Black. Still less would you have found your way to my cavern. My possessions exert a powerful will to come home.”

“What even is that thing?” Dean spluttered. Charlie turned to him with a guilty expression. 

“I borrowed it. From the Bunker,” she said.

“You did what?”

“You know, you guys said, have a root through, see if I could dig out anything I wanted to take for the cosplay stuff. A while back. When I got back from Oz.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, “through the wardrobes. Not through the archives.” 

“Ohhhh….” said Charlie, soft.

“Goddammit, Charlie, all of that stuff is magical! What else did you take?”

“I’ll give it back to you,” she said hastily. “Once we’re out of here.”

“That’s another thing,” said Dean. “How do we get –”

But suddenly the cave had vanished, and they were standing in the trees where it had once been, with two great chestnut horses breathing hot in their faces; and he was remember that Sam was out there, dying maybe, and they had to stop him.

“Come on, then,” said Charlie. “Let’s ride.”

~~~

If Sam had felt before that he was losing his grip on the time, he was pretty sure at this point that reality itself was vanishing, dwindling down to an eternal field of thorns. He couldn’t be sure whether he’d made three feet of progress or three miles, just that every movement felt like it was only inches and every lift of the blade tore his bleeding arms raw. 

And then, suddenly, he stumbled as his sword cut into empty air. The unopposed weight of it swung him downwards, pulling him awkwardly out of the thicket of thorns. Looking behind him, he saw them shrivel away; so that the long distance back to the edge of the woods became, not the nightmare garden he’d found himself fighting, but a field, grey, empty, dotted with white flowers. And before him, looming dark through the mists, a chapel. It was small and humble, constructed from large heavy stones. Its steeple was stumpy and the roof was made of wood. But Sam felt sure that this was the place that he had seen in his vision; that he’d made it, somehow, to the house of the Grail at last.

Now that he was out of the thorns, he became aware of what they’d done to him; of all the ragged wounds they’d torn into his side. He was throbbing all over with the pain of it, head spinning and dizzy with the loss of blood. But he was here, and he’d made it. So he had to carry on. 

Sam lurched in through the lych-gate, grabbing onto the wooden post of it for support. Somehow, with uneven footsteps, he made his way onward and found himself leaning, panting, against the door of the church.

He pushed it open, and found himself suffused in a golden light.


	8. Chapter 8

“Come on, you useless animal,” Dean urged. 

Charlie looked back over her shoulder. “You’re kidding, right?” she yelled. “I’ve never seen horses move so fast. These are totally magical, dude.”

“Whatever,” Dean muttered. Yeah, so the woods were going by pretty fast and blurry; and the horse that the wizard had presented him with showed no signs of slowing. But he reserved the right to feel just this frantic until it finally dropped him at wherever it was Sam had gone.

Then up ahead, Dean saw it, a little low chapel set out by itself in a field at the edge of the river, its windows glowing with an unearthly golden light. Why did it have to be a church, again, and another mad dash for Sam’s life?

“Hey, Charlie!” he called, and he saw her urge her horse onward, kicking her legs into its side. 

“Please, Sam, please,” he breathed to himself. “Don’t be dead.”

At last, there it was, and here he was, and he slid off his horse ungracefully and ran for the door.

When he got there, he couldn’t open it. There was some kind of force field blocking his way, like the light itself was solid, resisting his hands, a magical barrier trapping Sam irrevocably just beyond reach.

“SAM!” he called, battering fruitlessly at the air. “SAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!”

Unwanted, embarrassing, tears sprang to his eyes. Not again, not this time. He should have known. How many second chances could he get, or expect? How many last-minute interventions would it take to keep Sam tethered down to a life he clearly wanted to leave? Dean pummelled again at the light of the doorway and then slid down it, groundwards, pressing his face into the earth.

Suddenly, he heard Charlie cry out. 

He lifted his head. The door was open, and there Sam was inside it, his stupid brother, not dead or dying or evaporating in a haze of light, but positively glowing nonetheless, beaming the kind of big dopey smile that Dean hadn’t seen on his brother’s face in – well, in forever, if he started to think about it.

“Charlie,” Sam said, and Dean felt himself puffing up in overlooked outrage even as Sam continued to speak, “I have no idea how you got him here but honestly, thank God that you managed it.”

Dean caught Charlie’s baffled glance as Sam continued, “Dean. I’ve done it. Man. I’ve done it. It’s done.”

The weight that had begun to lift out of Dean’s chest settled itself back over him with crushing immediacy. “Done what? Sam – if you –” He found himself grasping for the words. “You don’t have to die.”

“What? No, you idiot,” and now Sam was grabbing at his sleeve, pulling him upright and tugging him into the church. “Charlie, come on.”

“Duuuuude,” breathed Charlie as they entered – and yeah, Dean was with her. The place might be small and outwardly unspectacular but inside there was something… kind of wonderful going on. The whole church was bathed in gold, glowing from floor to ceiling with a radiance that acted like balm, seeping its way into Dean’s tired, tense muscles and unknotting them in a welcome release. Even the Mark’s constant tingle, the quick hard pulse of violence under his skin, seemed to be dampened by the atmosphere. 

There was an altar, with a cup on it, small and innocuous enough. But in the light, everything seemed different, sacred, somehow gilded with hope. And Sam was in the centre of it, face radiant, even his stupid hair seeming to emanate some kind of… holiness. Oh God. Dean was definitely dreaming. This was all too weird.

Sam stepped towards the altar, picked up the cup.

Dean caught a glimpse of the liquid slopping viscous inside. “Oh no,” he said – almost mechanically, because he knew he had to.

It seemed like it was impossible to get really anxious, in here. It was like the best kind of trip, the kind where everything seemed awesome and positive and you just couldn’t feel bad, no matter how much you knew in the rational part of you that the monsters were out there and you had to deal with them and life sucked royally, really. It was like that. Dean couldn’t feel bad about what he was looking at, when Sam was all golden and glowy and happy and the same ecstatic feeling was slowly suffusing into his soul.

But he looked at the cup and its contents, glinting dark ruby red in the light, and said, “Sam, though, really. Drinking blood? I thought we said…”

Sam was shaking his head. “It’s not blood, Dean. Or it is, and it isn’t. You know. Communion wine. And also. The blood of Christ.”

Dean tried to think of a way in which he could convey his scepticism about this without hurting Sam’s feelings.

“Anyway, I’m not going to drink it. You are.”

Say what? This was definitely harshing Dean’s buzz. He shook his head, trying to knock out some of the numbness that the gold and the glowy seemed to be laying on him, trying to formulate an argument about how crazy Sam sounded. “I don’t –“

“Look, Dean,” Sam said, fond and exasperated. “This is how we do it, you fool.”

“Hey –“

“Please. For once in your life. Just listen to me. Just… shut up.” 

Surprising himself, Dean did.

“This is how we do it, Dean. How we get rid of the Mark of Cain. Don’t you see? This stuff, in this cup, in this place, it’s like… essence of holy. It can purify anything. And you can drink from it. Right now. Go on.”

Sam picked up the cup from the altar, stepped forward, holding it up.

Behind Dean, Charlie coughed.

“Isn’t… I mean… don’t you have to earn that?”

Sam looked at her. “That’s what we just did. I mean. What I just did, I guess. There were three trials. The beast. The castle. The thorns. You guys didn’t see those, I guess. It doesn’t matter. There were trials and I passed them and I’m here and I’ve earned this. And, you know. I’m giving it to Dean.”

“Hey, Sammy, no,” Dean said, and Sam was gazing at him tired and fond.

“Seriously, dude. Shut up and drink.”

So Dean did. He reached forward and took the cup, felt the cold metal of it against his palms. And he lifted it to his mouth and tried not to think too hard about the whole blood/wine conundrum, just tipped back his head and drank. 

He wasn’t sure if this was a ‘down the hatch’ scenario or a ‘polite sip’ scenario, so he just kept on chugging, let it run down his throat, felt it burn warm into his stomach until it was gone. And yeah, it didn’t taste like blood – which was good, he supposed – but it didn’t quite taste like wine either, not like he drank much of that. This felt brighter and sharper than anything he could remember, felt like it might be cleaning him up from the inside out.

“Look! Look at your arm,” Sam said, choked.

So Dean did, just in time to see the Mark flare golden and float away, dispersing particles into the general glow. And the pain of it vanished also: the sick nasty bloodlust that had been tugging at him since he took it, the sour taint that had been slowly poisoning his view on the world. He felt, suddenly, like himself again, not perfect (not really) and not without painful memories, but lighter, stronger, like maybe he could be happy again. 

He looked again at his forearm, bare and back to normal at last. And he looked up at Sam, who was smiling for real this time, with none of the strain or the tightness round the eyes that he’d been wearing even that first time he “cured” Dean back in the bunker with the blood. This was different. This was the real thing. 

“Hey. You did it, Sam,” Dean said. There was a catch in his voice.

Sam nodded, grinned. “Yeah. I know.”

And then, it seemed suddenly necessary that Sam know something.

“No,” Dean said. “Not curing me, though, I mean.”

Sam frowned.

“You did it, that stupid quest. Like…” Dean gestured vaguely with his hand, trying to conjure up the intensity of that moment in the hotel corridor, the painful shine in Sam’s feverish eyes and the dawning realisation that his little brother had felt tainted for the whole of his life. “You know. Knights of the Round Table. ‘I could never go on a quest like that.’ So. Turns out you could. And you did. You know.”

He felt foolish saying it, but also like it was important, that Sam needed to be confronted with the truth of the matter straight out, so he couldn’t pussy around it or deny it and keep feeling bad. “You are… you know. Pure. After all.”

Sam’s face tightened and for a sick moment Dean thought that was it; that he’d managed to say something so inappropriate that the brief moment of Sam’s sunshine happiness had already cut short. But then his brother’s features were trembling, slackening, and “Oh hey, man,” Dean said, moving forward to rest a hand on his brother’s shoulder as Sam started to cry. “Hey.”

He looked over at Charlie, who was crying, too, eyes big and luminous in the fading light of the chapel. “Sorry,” he mouthed, and she rolled her eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, silent, teasing, but serious too.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam, hiccupping. 

“Hey,” Dean said. “You did good. It’s OK.”

Then Sam lifted his head, breathed a sigh. He pointed towards the open door.

Silhouetted bright against the dark, Dean saw the shape of an enormous stag.

“Heeeey,” said Charlie happily. “Our saviour returns!”

“Literally,” said Sam with a watery grin.

“I don’t get it,” said Dean.

“He’s a good guy, trust me,” Charlie said. “I guess… we should follow him again?”

So they did it, almost floating on their giddy relief and laughter, following the stag’s sure and silent progress through the trees. And finally, they heard noise in the woods before them, and saw the bright, artificial colours of everyone’s tents.

They emerged into the camp to find everybody in the process of waking, shucking on boots and brushing their teeth and sizzling bacon over the fire.

“Hey, Charlie,” grinned a bespectacled guy with a ponytail. Larry, Sam thought he might be called. “Where did you guys get to? We tried to wake you up for breakfast, but you weren’t in your tents. I think you missed all the sausages. There might still be some beans.”

“You tried to wake us up… this morning?” Charlie said.

“Sure,” said Larry. “About an hour ago. Anyway it’s great that you’re here now. We need to plan today’s action.”

Sam left them to their discussion, caught Dean’s eye and headed alongside him back to their tent.

“Is that regulation armour?” asked a woman, gazing admiringly at the shiny breastplate of Sam’s new suit.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he told her. “I’m new at this kind of thing.”

Back in the privacy of their canvas bedroom, the two of them took a silent moment to relax, reassess. Here they were. Nothing broken. Nobody lost. And the Mark, gone forever. Dean couldn’t believe it, kept looking incredulous down at his arm again. Still gone. And he knew it, really, could feel it in the lightness of his step and the lift of his heart.

“Sam,” he said. “You’re my hero.”

“Shut up, dude,” said Sam. And smiled.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Quest Like That [Art for Reverse Bang]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174616) by [litra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra)




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